The Riverboat

“Don’t part with your illusions. When they are gone, you may still exist, but you have ceased to live."

Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson, 1894

Chapter One: The Indian

As Indians went, he was tall. In Hannibal, in the decade leading up to the war of Northern Aggression, there were no more Indians. Longwood's appearance there would have been considered an oddity. There had not been Indians on this leg of the Mississippi since the massacre of Red Stick’s people in the early 1820’s. The appearance of Longwood, all six feet of him, would have come as quite a shock to the three dozen or so citizens of Hannibal. Fortunately, he had arrived at the chiming of eight with the sun long below the horizon, so none were about to witness his arrival. Somewhere to the North, ‘round about Memphis, there was an Indian school, a place where the orphans of tribes lost to disease or war were educated, and trained in the many mysterious ways of the white eyes. Longwood knew that some of these children did, in fact, have parents, parents who were, for the most part, alive and well. But that was not an issue that concerned him. Longwood was a man of a singular mind, concerned only with consequential deals, fair deals of long-result, and sometimes dire consequences. He had come to Hannibal to make just such a deal.

The Indian stood in the shadow of the old church, moonlight glinting off his teeth, the rest of his face bathed in black. Some said it was the hardness of his features that kept him in the shadows. He seemed to seek out the places with the smallest light in order to lessen the harshness of his appearance. Others said that he could actually manipulate the shadows, train and command them like domesticated dogs. Longwood left them all to their wonderings. While he was a man of open, fair deals, he was also a man with countless secrets.

Slowly, he drew in a breath of tobacco from his soapwood pipe. The pipe had been a gift from an old medicine man that had lost his leg to a spider bite. In exchange for a new leg, Longwood had acquired the pipe. It was, above all things, his most prized possession. Each puff of smoke provided an extra sweetness that the old man claimed was from the breath of ghost children. Young ones that died, the medicine man had explained, never could move on to the spirit world because they had never been given the chance to truly understand the finality of death. They could not reconcile that they were no longer alive, so they lingered in familiar places, around campfires, and cooking pots, and were sometimes reeled in by the familiar aroma of tobacco.

In the house across from the church, a lantern burned in the downstairs window. Longwood watched the shadows play across the wall, one strong and as dark as pitch, the other weak and gray, an ashen cloud, smoke escaping from a life’s dwindling fire. When shadows faded in such a way, it usually meant that death was near, probably lurking in the same pocket of shadow that concealed the tall Indian. Death came as a chilled wind, formless and often silent. Longwood had only seen the gaunt white face of the soul stealer once, but that was long ago, in the dark days following the grand emergence.

A breeze dashed across his shoulder, heading away from the house, and the Indian knew that death had, in fact, been lingering. The reaper had probably been called away to another tragedy, a life snuffed so suddenly that the old reaper had not the time to appreciate the discomfort and effort it took for the living to pass from this world. Dying was a unique act, and so foreign to humanity that the power it took to concede released a boom of life energy that death swallowed like hot whiskey down a dry gullet. With the harvestman gone, the gray shadow in the old house thickened, but it still lacked the intensity cast by those vibrant with life.

With a loud creak, the front door of the old house opened, and someone stepped out. Thomas Peabody was a wisp of a boy, short for his age, and sickly most of his life. Despite this, his shadow was thicker and darker than any Longwood had ever seen. One did not have to be healthy to cast such a deep shadow. All that was required was an adventurous spirit and a lust for living. The only person Longwood knew with a shadow near as dark was The Aquanaut, and he had lived a thousand lifetimes. At fourteen, this child had enough imagination and desire to fuel a thousand years of night.

“I had worried you would forget,” Longwood whispered. The wind carried his words across the space between them. “But this is not something even a Leprechaun can forget.”

Thomas moved across the dusty avenue, his way lit by will and scant moonlight. He stood just outside of the tall Indian’s reach and handed him a small shining thing. Quickly, Longwood took the offered object and held it up to the moonlight. The pocket watch spun at the end of the chain, propelled into motion by the power of Longwood’s admiration. Silver with an acid-etched floral pattern, it was the most dazzling timepiece he had ever seen.

“This is your most prized possession?” he asked.

Thomas nodded and said, “My father once told me it was forged by the most talented watchmaker in all of Germany. If you keep it wound, you’ll never be late for anything.”

“Time matters not in my profession,” Longwood said. “All that arouses me is beauty and admiration. So I ask again, this is your most treasured possession?”

“It truly is, Mr. Longwood,” the boy said, a mark of sadness in his voice. “My father died when I was but five years old. He left my mother with nay but our home, and this watch, of course.”

“You must be truly willing to part with it,” The Indian said. He touched Thomas between the eyes. “Not there.” His finger moved to the boy’s chest. “Here.”

“My mother is all I have, sir,” Thomas whispered. “If she dies, I’ll be an orphan.”

“The agreement is as follows,” Longwood said, tucking the watch into his vest pocket. “The watch buys you passage on my riverboat. When we arrive at your destination, it is up to you to obtain the cure I promised. I - nor my associates - can help you to achieve your goal. There is a balance that was struck long ago, and it cannot be undone.”

“I understand,” Thomas said.

“Good,” Longwood replied. “Be at the dock between Midnight and twelve-oh-one. If you’re late, the boat will depart without you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bring nothing with you.”

Stepping from the shadows, the Indian fixed Thomas with a hard expression. Longwood’s face was narrow and dark, his eyes as black as scarabs. His thin lips parted slightly, revealing teeth at odds, all crooked and crowded together.

“Bring nothing with you,” he said, putting extreme emphasis on the word nothing.

Without so much as a farewell, he turned and stalked down Hannibal’s main avenue. A dark cloud followed him, streaking from shadow to shadow, stealing darkness from darkness, becoming denser and bleaker with each step. Thomas watched with disbelief, his eyes alive with wonder and terror. The Indian felt the boy watching him and spun around quickly. The shadows moved in tight around him, and then faded, taking Longwood with them.

Thomas stood silent, wondering if he had done the right thing. Shadows were born of darkness and light, without one there could not be the other, but what followed this man was darkness so pure that it swallowed brother light alive. It seemed to Thomas a thing of the Devil.

Chapter Two Coming Tuesday, August 15, 2023